"Wild West show, a regular Buffalo Bill outfit, with wild
Indians, cowboys, bucking ponies and whoop! whoop! Hi-yi-yi!
You know?"
Teddy's eyes were glowing with excitement, while a dull red glow showed beneath the tan on his face.
"I wouldn't get so excited about it," answered Phil, highly amused.
"How'd you like that kind?"
"Not at all. It's too rough. Give me the circus every time, with its life, its color, it's—oh, pshaw! What's the use talking about it? Is there anything in the world more attractive than those tents over there, with the flags of every nation flying from center and quarter poles? Is there, Teddy?"
"Well, no; I guess that's right."
For a moment the lads were silent. They were sitting beneath a spreading maple tree off, on the circus lot, a few rods from where the tents were being erected. A gentle breeze was stirring the flags, billowing the white canvas of the tents in slow, undulating waves.
"And to think that we belong to that! Do you know, sometimes I think it is all a dream, and I'm afraid I shall suddenly wake up to find myself back in Edmeston with Uncle Abner Adams driving me out of the house with a stick."
Phil's face grew solemn as those unhappy days under his uncle's roof came back to him in a flood of disquieting memories.
"Don't wake up, then," replied Teddy.